


Silent Vows

by mrvvrench



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Ableism, M/M, No dudes die, wrench and numbers get in a fight, wrenchers wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrvvrench/pseuds/mrvvrench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench approaches a touchy subject and Numbers makes a cruel joke which throws a jam in their relationship. When Numbers thinks that it's all over, that Wrench is going to pack his things and leave, his partner reassures him the exact opposite with a confession and question that Numbers was sure he'd never be asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Vows

**Author's Note:**

> [This idea](http://thorrinoakenshield.tumblr.com/post/88553290519/do-you-ever-think-about-mr-wrench-and-mr-numbers) by [misternumbers](http://misternumbers.tumblr.com/) has been floating around in my head for almost an entire month now Not to mention the extreme amount of Wrenchers wedding headcanons that I've seen floating around. I couldn't not do it. 
> 
> Chapter 1 out of 3 (I think). Will be updating this as well as with my other in progress fic while pumping out oneshots.

“ _We_ are _not_ having _this_ fight again,” Numbers shouts, half signing parts of his warning. His voice is adamant and headstrong, not that Wrench could hear it. But it shows in the way Numbers’ shoulders square; his eyes following every little movement that Wrench makes with the intensity of a hawk stalking a field rabbit.

That wouldn’t stop Wrench. Not in the slightest. The man squares his own shoulders, standing inches taller than his partner.

_We wouldn’t have to have this fight again if you actually bothered to fucking listen to me!_ His hands fly quickly through the air, his face snarling when his partner rolls his eyes at him. _I don’t see what your problem is,_ Wrench continues in frustration. He stares Numbers down, taking a step forward. Most of the time that works to coax him out of his stubborn, unyielding opinion; if only a little. But not with **this** fight. It was the only one that remained steadfast and unfinished; never getting anywhere. It was always stuck at an impasse, dangling off the precipice between make it or break it.

Every time, it ends the same. Wrench will storm out, take a walk until he thinks his partner is starting to worry about him. He’ll come home, and sure enough, Numbers will be waiting up, staring intently at him with nothing but guilt and concern in his big brown eyes. But even then, it doesn’t change anything. Numbers won’t talk about it. Wrench stays out longer each time. He debates the worth and work each time. It weighs heavy on the scale, but when does that become not enough?

“I don’t see what **_your_ _problem_** is,” Numbers replies quickly. Subconsciously, he takes a tiny step backwards, eyes watching the giant man in front of him. He’s never sure how hard he can poke the bear until he gets decked in his the face for being a jackass. “The _idea_ is absolutely _stupid,_ man”

_There’s nothing stupid about it!_ Wrench slams a hand against the wall after signing. Numbers can see the rage boiling inside of him. It turns his partner’s face red and his ears even redder. When Wrench starts too look like a sunburnt lobster, Numbers knows he’s officially gone too far. But Wrench should know how stubborn they both were. They wanted two different things and there would be no middle ground. They both had to know that.

“We can’t quit our jobs!” Numbers doesn’t even bother signing. His voice shouts louder than necessary, especially considering it didn’t matter how loud he could shout. Unless it was his intention to let the entire apartment complex know they’re fighting.

_Who knows if they’ll come after us, or worse, shoot us in the face right then and there!_ Numbers watches as Wrench’s eyes cloud over. “I mean _come on, man_ ,” Numbers groans in exhaustion. _Have you ever heard of anyone quitting before?_

Wrench shrugs and looks away for a moment.

_Maybe they don’t want anyone else to know who has quit so no one goes after them if they’ve got grudges._

Numbers throws his head back in laughter. He misses the look of sheer fury that Wrench shoots at him. Perhaps if he’d saw, he might reconsider the words that spill from his hands. _Are you fucking blind too?. You just don’t get how this world works. You’re hopeful and fucking stupid._ _Is that why they call you deaf and dumb?_

Wrench’s jaw drops. His partner didn’t even touch him, but he still feels like he got punched in the stomach. Numbers realizes exactly what he’s said and within seconds regret comes flooding in so quickly he could drown in it. He should drown in it. That had to be the worst thing he’s ever said to Wrench in his entire time of knowing him. And he’s said some pretty awful things. His heart stops as he watches his partner clamp his jaw shut with a loud clack, his eyes darkening as they narrow into the most blood curdling glare Numbers thinks he’s ever seen Wrench make. Fear spreads from head to toe as he watches it bore a hole straight through him.

_You know what asshole? Fuck this._ Wrench throws his arms open wide and gestures all around him. _Fuck all of this. Fuck our jobs. Fuck our lives. Fuck this shit hole. And fuck you, too. **I’m done**._ Wrench turns on the spot and grabs his coat, throwing the ugly fringe covered thing over his body. He doesn’t even glance back as he yanks the door open and slams it shut, way harder than necessary. It’s a wonder it stays on the hinges. Books fall to the floor from hanging shelves. Framed photos sway on their hooks, threatening to drop and break. Just like Numbers’ world.

The smaller hit man is absolutely stunned. He stares at the door, his eyes tracing down the wall and onto the floor. Glued in place, he hears the shatter of glass as a picture finally gives up the impossible job of  holding on. Tiny shards rain all over the floor, catching the light and sending a million rainbows dancing off the light for a split second. Numbers watches with an intense fascination that mingles with utter devastation as silence settles over.

Never before has Wrench **ever** said he was done. After all the stupid fights he’d walked out on, all the arguments and dumb shit that Numbers pulled, Wrench never used that word. Images race through Numbers mind, replaying Wrench’s hands signing _I’m done_ over and over.

_I’m done._

It’s like a harsh slap to the face that starts sending shockwaves down his throat and into his heart and lungs. He can’t breathe; he feels like he’s choking. What little air he feels like he’s able to force into his lungs is blocked by a lump that swells in his throat. His eyes sting as his body threatens to cry. Over anything else, Numbers would hold it back and tell himself to “man up”. Everything else is _nothing_ compared to this.

A sob wracks through his chest as his mind watches the door slam shut for the twentieth time in a single minute. How could he have fucked up this bad? And now… It was probably too late, now.

His mind screams for relief as a few tears squeeze their way out of the corner of his eyes. No, he has to hold it together for just a little bit longer. He slowly moves one leg in front of the other to walk. It feels surreal as he slips on shoes and a jacket. He’s not going after his partner… or ex-partner. He knows if Wrench doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. For a giant, over six foot man, he’s able to completely vanish with far too much ease.

No, instead Numbers finds himself leaving the apartment door unlocked as he runs down to the convenience store to pick up some smokes. It’s especially cold tonight and Numbers hopes Wrench is holed up somewhere warm and not getting frost bite on his fingers. He didn’t take his gloves. Numbers’ heart hurts.

He burns through an entire cigarette in the four minute walk back to the apartment. A buzz from the nicotine surges through his body and brings only a momentary reprieve from Wrench’s sudden departure. It doesn’t last long, and Numbers finds himself digging an ashtray out from the pits of a box long stored in the depths of the closet. He lights up in the apartment, despite knowing Wrench would kill him. Part of him hopes the action alone will summon the man back home. But it doesn’t.

How’s he going to fix this? Can he even fix it? In between drags and thick clouds of exhaled smoke, Numbers brain races around all the possibilities and outcomes of this situation. But, it just leads him back to one agonizing thought: Wrench coming home, completely ignoring Numbers, and packing his things.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Numbers cradles his head in hands. That’s when the tears start to fall freely and he allows the smoke and quiet sobs to choke him.

 

The air burns Wrench’s fingers numb. He’d forgotten his gloves back in the apartment, but his animosity is more bitter than the wind. His pride is wounded and his feelings are legitimately hurt. He knows Numbers has thrown some mean insults his way in the heat of the moment. Hell, he’s done it to Numbers half a dozen times himself. But never, ever has he used his deafness as a complete insult. Never like that. The words fester and eat at him as he makes his way down the dimly lit street. It’s not too late to go somewhere to eat or to a bar for a drink.

Right now, however, all Wrench really wants to do is walk and move. He doesn’t want to deal with communicating without his interpreter at the moment. It’s always awkward, but he’ll do it when he has to. But with the fury still nipping at his heels, he knows he’ll only have a harder time. Eventually, Wrench knows, the cold will drive him in somewhere. It’s inevitable. Hopefully, he’ll be a little more level-headed by then.

Wrench comes along a small café he and Numbers have been to once or twice.

It’s the perfect place to duck into; Numbers hated the coffee here. Said it tasted burnt. Wrench has had his fair share of burnt coffee in his life, and this place was not one of the unfortunate cups. The large hit man was pretty sure it was because the barista had flirted with Wrench, which was not to Numbers liking at all.

The barista is not the same this time. Wrench makes the motion of writing to get a piece of paper and a pen. He doesn’t bother trying to ask for what he wants vocally. He writes quickly on the paper “deaf, regular coffee, shot of caramel, cinnamon and foam.” The barista takes the paper and smiles warmly and it only takes a minute before the coffee is set in front of him. Wrench nods his thanks and heads into the back of the coffee shop after plucking a book from the main table.

The words only offer a slight distraction from everything that has happened.

Even after calming down a bit, Wrench still feels hurt. He does feel a little bad about the way he left, but he doesn’t feel sorry. The hit man isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do about the way things were left and what he was going to come home to. Part of him wondered if he should even go home tonight. It was the vindictive, ill-tempered part of him that held his pride that tried to slither and wind it’s way around his heart. He _would_ go home. But not for a while. He wasn’t done being angry and he wasn’t ready to face Numbers’s apology. Wrench wasn’t even sure if he’d get one. Numbers was the worst at apologies. And if he didn’t get one, he may just end up back here in a few hours, seething. Better to just let himself cool off first.

 

The door opening sounds so loud to Numbers. It’s like someone screaming right next to his head and he fights the urge to cover his ears. It resonates through his entire being. Wrench walks through the door and the sounds of his footsteps carry hesitation and the unmistakable sound of agitation. The giant hit man’s footsteps always get ten times heavier when he’s pissed off about something.

Numbers is surprised he’s even home at all. Panic grips at his stomach as his mind replays the scenario of Wrench packing his things. Is he about to watch that unfold like a bitter prophecy he made? Numbers subconsciously takes a drag of the lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. Wrench immediately zeroes in on his face and glares. It’s only with the exhale of smoke that he realizes exactly why he’s glaring. **Shit.**

_Seriously? You’re fucking smoking? In the house?_ Wrench eyes the shirtless man, watching the smoke curl around him in tiny, little moats through the air. The room is hazy and covered in a heavy fog of cigarette smoke, trapped without an opening to seep through. Wrench wrinkles his nose at the pungent stench; his eyes sting. Walking over to the window, the hit man cracks it open despite the cold, January air. With an escape finally available, the smoke slips out quickly through the crack.

Wrench turns back to the man sitting on the couch, looking utterly fucking devastated. Part of the man feels really shitty about what he said when he looks at Numbers, surrounded by a few packs of cigarettes and several empty bottles of beer. But part of him takes a sick satisfaction in it. It’s small, relatively insignificant; but it’s still there, feeding on his pride and festering below the surface of his rationality.

“Sorry,” _Sorry._ Numbers searches the ashtray filled with butts as he tries to find a suitable place to stub out the cigarette without lighting the thing on fire. Wrench watches him with a look of displeasure that mingles with a touch of disgust that makes Numbers feel vile and ashamed.

_Look,_ Numbers starts out, his hands shaking from an over absorption of nicotine and the constant panic his brain forced through him. He stands up from the couch.

_I’m—_

Wrench cuts him off, holding his hand up and averting is his eyes. _If you’re going to give me some empty apology I don’t want it._

So this is it. This is truly the end. Realization punches Numbers heavy in the gut, settling deep within him. He fucked up so hard that Wrench would never forgive him. There was nothing Numbers could do, now. All he ever did was fuck everything up. If he even tried to fix it, at this point he’d probably just destroy whatever was left. His hands cradled his head once more and he ached for yet another cigarette and for everything to just be okay again. Fuck, how he wishes he could go back several hours ago and punch himself in his own face before his hands form the words he wants to take back more than anything in his life. _I’m sorry._ He signs without even looking up. He just can’t.

Wrench watches the man. Pity fills his heart as the weak hands form the words he told him not to say. He knows Numbers is genuinely sorry. It’s so rare that he’s this upset about anything. Wrench hasn’t seen him like this in more than a year. Large shoulders sag on the hit man’s frame as he lets his better half consume his wrath and pride.

“Hey,” Wrench says out loud, getting Numbers attention. He knows better than to touch him when he’s like this. No, he has to use all the caution of approaching and injured, wild animal. Numbers looks up at him and Wrench can tell from the way his shoulders and jaw set, that he’s steeling himself. The poor fucking thing. The hit man slowly brings his hands up and swears that Numbers actually flinches.

_I’m really fucking pissed,_ he starts. Numbers brings his hands forward to sign something but Wrench shakes his head. “No,” _let me talk_. The sound of Wrench’s voice floods Numbers’ ears. Is this the last time he’ll ever hear it? His heart hammers so hard, it feels like every beat will be the last it takes.

_I’m mad. What you said really hurt me. It was insulting and if you were anyone else you would have been dead._

Numbers watches his hands, the words translating and burning with each sign. Here it is. The “we need to talk” moment. This is like every other break up he’s had; so many. He can feel it rounding third base, about to slide home and his stomach churns in awful apprehension. He’s not ready to give up and let go. He’s not ready to have to try to move on. He can’t move on.

_But you’re not just anyone else, Numbers._

**What?**

_We’ve known each other for a few years now and in those few years you’ve taught me more than twenty-three years of living ever could. You mean the world to me. I’ve been alone for so long. No one wants to talk to the deaf kid. He can’t fucking hear. He can’t speak. I’ve never had a single friend before I met you. When you learned sign language just so you could communicate with me it was worth more to me than any single one of my memories or possessions. I can’t explain to you how happy it made me. You understand me better than anyone could. When I need you, you’re always there. Even if you could be doing something else. Even if there was someone else I could communicate with, which there never will be, I wouldn’t want to. You’re not just my friend. You’re my best fucking friend. And my partner. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else. I can’t imagine spending it without you. You are my life. You’re my everything. I need you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you._

Numbers stares at the hands moving in so many signs and gestures that he’d spent months and months agonizing over so he could get to know his partner more. When the hands stop moving, the small hit man finally looks up at his partner’s face. Eyes wet with tears Numbers didn’t even realize were falling, he takes a shaky breath and tries to process everything. His lips part as he tries to fill his polluted lungs with fresh air that can’t make it pass the strangled sob in his throat. His eyebrows knit up in confusion as everything falls into their tiny little places. Not only is he needed, but he’s also wanted. Wanted by this beautiful, wonderful man whom Numbers felt he never deserved; feels he never will.

He doesn’t know where all of this is coming from and it’s overwhelming and relieving and terrifying all at once. It chews and digs its way under his skin and fills him with an undeniable feeling of warmth and love and everything he could never feel before Wrench had shown him what they had meant. If anyone had taught anything in this relationship, it was Wrench teaching Numbers. Before he’d met the younger hit man, he was cold and broken and devoid of any emotion except for anger or ignored, insurmountable loneliness. Wrench filled all the voids and holes that Numbers never admitted he’d had.

_You want to spend the rest of your life with me?_ He finally signs to his partner. Wrench has been staring at his pathetically beautiful face going through a range of every emotion he’d ever learned, watching realization crawl behind those teary eyes and light them up in a way Wrench has hardly seen before.

_Yes. I want to spend the rest of my life with you._

_Like…_ Numbers pauses and chews at his lip. _A marriage sort of thing?_

Wrench rolls his eyes at the way Numbers’ hands sign _marriage._

_Not like a marriage. An actual marriage._

Numbers startles like a mother deer as Wrench answers his question. _Are you asking me…_ hands don’t complete the sentence. Wrench could swear it’s like he’s asking Numbers to drown a kitten with the face he makes. His partner can be truly pitiful sometimes and Wrench loves even that about him. Large shoulders shrug out of the fringe jacket as Wrench makes his way over to Numbers.

_Yes. I am asking._ He pulls the coffee table away from the front of his partner with ease and stands in front of him for a moment, just taking in the fear and hope playing a proverbial tug-of-war in Numbers’s mind. With a smirk, Wrench drops to his one knee in front of him.

_“_ Fuck,” Numbers whispers, his partner reading it from his lips and scowling a bit.

_Adam Michael Kaiser_ Wrench signs, using the sign names he’d given to his partner when he first learned his full name. He feels small, but strong hands catch his wrists; watches tears he knows Numbers was trying to hold back brim the eyes of his partner. Wrench is unsure if he’ll let him finish, but he feels the fingers loosen, before they finally pull away to rest in his lap. He gives a small, barely there nod. Wrench reaches up and brushes his messy hair back, smoothing his thumb across the tiny teardrop on his cheek. Bringing his hands back down he keeps his eyes glued on Numbers’.

_Will you marry me?_

Numbers feels his heart hammering a thousand miles a minute in his chest. He can’t take his eyes off of the handsome green ones of his partner staring into him. Wrench is asking so much and yet not half of what he deserves from the small hit man. It takes several minutes of little, panicked breaths, before Numbers finally nods. He picks his hand up and signs yes, confirming it.

A giant smile breaks out on Wrench’s face. His entire being thrums in excitement when Numbers finally gives in to him. It’s everything they’ve both needed but never were willing to talk about. From down on one knee he reaches a hand up and drags Numbers’s face down to his own, kissing him gentle and slow. He puts every ounce of love he holds for his partner – now his fiancé – into it.

After a long, sweet moment that he’ll remember for a life time, Wrench pulls away and looks up at Numbers. Deep brown eyes dart all over the place before they looks back into Wrench’s.

_So…_

_  
_A moment of stillness spreads between the two men. Wrench watches the nervous, confused, and reluctantly hopeful eyes scan his face.  
 __  
What do we do now?

Wrench grins like a madman.

_Now, we plan a wedding._

 


End file.
